


A Haunting

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26904820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: Every day was the same: long and dark, but a visit from a friend tries to bring a glimmer of light
Kudos: 10





	A Haunting

I trudged down the street, on my way back from an errand and in no real hurry to leave a haunted sidewalk for an equally haunted house. All that remained were ghosts of what had been and never would be again, and the only difference between house and street was which ghost I saw.

I hoped the house and practice would sell quickly. In the fortnight since putting them up for sale, I still had not decided where I would go, but anywhere had to be better than here. If I was lucky, wherever I ended up would have no memories, no past, and no need to do anything but find a job that paid enough to feed myself—not that that would take much. I had not had an appetite in weeks. I would go to a town I had never been, one where ghosts did not linger in every alley and whispers did not follow me up the path.

_“Detective…heard…”_

I barely glanced at the couple standing in a nearby doorway. I could not remember when walking down the street did not garner glances and whispers about the detective’s assistant. I had no idea what it was about seeing me that made everyone whisper behind their hand, but every reminder cut me deeper than the last.

_“Wife, too…poor dear.”_

I needed to get out of London, to a place where no one would recognize me, a place where I could attempt to start over. I would never be able to move on if I stayed here.

A faint noise caught my attention, and I glanced over as a stray cat knocked over a rubbish bin. The cat ran off, and the clatter of the falling bin echoed in the alley almost as loudly as in my thoughts.

_We froze at the noise. Discovery at this point would ruin the plan, and we waited, watching to see if anyone appeared behind us._

_The caterwaul of fighting cats carried from the alley we had just left, and we continued forward as_ _I chuckled faintly. Better a cat than a tail, I supposed, smirking at the play on words. Holmes might enjoy that one, after we caught our suspect._

I shook myself out of the memory as loss stabbed somewhere in my chest. Holmes was at the bottom of the falls, but he lived in every alley, every intersection, every corner of the city he had called home, and the memories would be welcome if only they did not hurt so much.

I needed to get out of London.

Finally reaching the house, I fumbled for the key. My only reason for coming home each night was a lack of interest in wandering London neighborhoods, and I wanted to get inside and close the door. I rarely slept, and I had no appetite—and therefore no need to cook—but at least the house shielded me from prying eyes. A night staring through the fire had long ago proven better than a night spent aimlessly walking the streets, and I struggled to unlock the door, cursing my shaking hands.

“Doctor!”

The familiar voice called from across the street as I finally got the key into the lock, and I turned to see Mrs. Hudson hurrying towards me.

“I’m glad I caught you, Doctor,” she said as she reached the porch, frowning for some reason I could not fathom. “Billy delivered your note today. You can’t really be moving?”

I stepped out of the way, gesturing silently to the “For Sale” sign in front of the house, and she seemed to deflate.

“Oh, Doctor. Don’t leave!”

“I must, Mrs. Hudson,” I told her quietly, leading her into the front room. “I need to get out of the city, out of this empty house.”

She frowned again, and I wondered why. Could she read more in my voice than I wanted her to read? I raised my barriers higher, fighting to project the front that would prevent her from asking any difficult questions.

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.” I turned away, putting my bag in its place and taking off my coat. “I just have to get out of the city. There are too many memories here.”

“Is that why you stopped visiting?”

I smothered a flinch at the sadness in that question, leading her toward the table as I nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudson, but he is still there—they are still there—haunting me from around every corner just like Mary is still here. I haven’t even walked down Baker Street in months.”

She frowned again, sitting across from me at the table. “One of these days,” she told me, “but, Doctor,” she continued, dropping the thought in the middle, “maybe if you came you would be able to remember, release, and move on. Goodness knows it took me months before I could clean that sitting room without expecting him to look up at me from his chair.”

Belatedly, my mind finished the dropped thought— _I will get you to call me Martha—_ and I forced a smirk, using the opportunity to redirect the conversation.

“You know I only did that because I found your insistence amusing?” She raised an eyebrow at me, confused, and I added, “Martha.”

She leaned back, staring at me, then chuckled. “Of course, you did, but I won’t let you change the subject so easily. If you won’t come back to Baker Street, at least let me visit you here? The flat is entirely too empty without two crazy lodgers upstairs.”

The smile that came was almost genuine. “You are always welcome here,” I told her. She raised an eyebrow, and I forced an eye roll. “Martha.”

“Don’t be a stranger, Doctor. Mary and Mr. Holmes were not the only ones that care about you.”

I knew that, but…but I couldn’t act on it. Their loss was too deep, too painful, and I was too alone in my silent, empty house. I knew that she and probably Lestrade considered me a friend just as I did them, but that did not change that I felt alone, bereft of purpose. Everyone I loved died; better to withdraw completely than risk Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson because I allowed myself to get too close to them.

“Thank you. I should have invited you over before now. I just…” I trailed off, unsure how to continue, but she seemed to understand.

“I know, dearie. I know. Every day seems to pass in a haze. I wasn’t much better after my husband died.”

I forced a scowl, irritated at the comparison where Holmes was concerned, and she chuckled. “You know what I meant,” she chided. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that he was your brother in all but blood. My mother used to tell me that a soulmate could be family, friend, or spouse. My husband was my only soulmate, but you were fortunate enough to have two: Mary and Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes,” I said, allowing my tone to bely the words, “fortunate.” I was fortunate to have them so I could lose them.

Sympathy appeared in her gaze. “It will get better,” she promised, “and you are welcome in my kitchen any time. I hope you know that.”

“I know that, Mrs—I know that, Martha,” I answered quietly, too empty to gain any amusement from using her title and referring to being welcome at Baker Street, not that I thought it would get better. There was no use disputing that. “I can’t promise to always be home, but you are welcome to call here, too,” I added, wanting her to feel welcome though I knew I had no energy for company most days. My lights were usually off, anyway; she would never know if I was home and simply not answering.

“Are you doing anything tonight?” she asked, glancing between where I sat and the kitchen. “My sister gave me a new recipe for that dish you used to like. I could teach it to you, just like old times.”

I hesitated. I had nowhere to be—my only plan had been to stare through the fire all night again—but did I want someone else here, fussing and trying to get me to eat when I had no appetite and hadn’t in ages?

I doubted I did, but the disappointment on her face made me agree despite my reservations. It wouldn’t be too hard to pretend to eat, and the company might make the evening pass quicker.

Too many memories came to life as we worked—of cooking together at Baker Street, of the first time she had let me borrow the kitchen, of her surprise when I proved I could cook, of chasing Holmes away after catching him in the batter for some dessert, of quiet evenings spent downstairs while Holmes was out of the flat—but I carefully pushed them aside to review later. For now, it was enough that the kitchen rang with voices and occasional laughter, however faked it was on my end. For a while, I could almost believe that we were back at Baker Street, that Holmes would arrive any minute. He perpetually seemed just around the corner, waiting for me to turn and spot him, as he had so many times before. Perhaps Mary was standing with him after he roped her into whatever plan he had implemented to steal the ingredients—one ingredient in particular.

That image shattered and rebuilt so many times over the evening that I paid dearly for it the next day, but if I could manage to hold onto the evening’s memory, I thought the hours might have been worth the price.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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